Submitted by RosePaint

July 13, 1978

Scene 1: Jim Beach

Roger pulled his T-shirt off and stretched his arms high over his head. "Well, I don't know about you girls," he declared, squinting at his bandmates through the bright sunshine, "but I'm going in."

We stood by the edge of a pristine, blue pool, courtesy of Super Bear, the new recording studio located in lovely Nice. The morning had been productive, and the sun was high in the sky. This was the band's first album to be recorded on foreign soil; the last year had caused the boys to become quite staunch haters of the taxman (though I doubt any sane citizen of any nation holds much love for him anyway), and recording here in France would prove easier on all our wallets- although the studio pool indeed was a refreshing plus all by itself.

Even John, the "dark horse" of the bunch (I'd only just taken over as manager of these boys towards the beginning of this year, so I was still getting to know them- and thus far, I knew least about John), was eyeing the clear, inviting waters. He followed Roger over, tugging his trunks a little further across his thighs, but left his red t-shirt on.

But of course, Freddie was ahead of them all. While Roger was talking, Freddie had stripped naked to the waist, leaving only his almost rude swimming shorts, and stretched out on the stony ledge to sunbathe. He had a long, lean body, I noticed, even though he was not impressively tall. More gangling than long, I suppose that's a better word, but still he carried himself with a curious grace- a subtle, otherworldly mystery- and all the world wanted him. I had seen it for myself.

He sat up again when the other two crept over and down beside him, one on either side; Brian had yet to join us, as he was still changing into his swimwear.

"Ooo, Ratty, quick, get a picture," Roger chirped to Peter Hince, one of our roadies who just so happened to have a camera on him at the moment.

"Just a minute," Ratty mumbled.He started pulling his camera out of its satchel.

"This place is great," Roger sighed happily. "Why didn't we do this before?"

"Maybe because Super Bear only opened this year?" I replied dryly.

"We wouldn't have even known about it if it weren't for you," Brian said, strolling up behind me, hands on hips. "It's a lovely change of pace."

Freddie nodded in agreement while he worked his mouth absently, stretching his lips over his teeth and squinting in the sun, but for the most part he was silent. Brian laid down on a sun chair, put his hands behind his head, and kicked back. The water would have to wait for him, it seemed.

"Come on!" Roger whined when he decided it was taking Ratty too long to get his camera out of the bag. "I want to get in!"

"Then next time, YOU bring the camera," he popped back playfully. "Can't do it all, you know!"

After a little more cocky banter, Ratty lifted up his camera, and snapped a nice one of the three boys relaxing by the poolside.

"One more?" Ratty asked.

John covered his face a moment, then looked back up, beaming- and Roger shook his head. "No, one's enough for now." He clambered to his feet and with a wild yell leapt into the pool, splashing the other two on impact with the water.

With a funny, high-pitched squeal of surprise, Freddie put his hands up, shielding his face, then waited for Roger to resurface. Sure enough, the drummer's blond head shot back into the open air- only for Fred to kick at the water, splashing his face in return.

"Oi! What was that for?" Roger spluttered.

Freddie smirked. "Just watch yourself next time; I'll get wet when I'm ready, and not a minute before."

"Oh, yeah?" Suddenly Roger grabbed at Freddie's foot- and missed. A second later, he kicked once more, and kept kicking while Roger kept flailing and failing to capture his elusive foot, the two men laughing like little boys while John just smiled, looking on.

I too watched with interest. For this was the silliest and most outgoing I had seen Freddie behave today. Aside of the morning's recording hullabaloo, he had indeed been rather quiet, kept to himself even more than usual. And there was this thing he kept playing, in the occasional moments of lull- some kind of song. It wasn't part of any of the various ideas he had recently proposed. All his song ideas thus far -the ones he was campaigning to work on for the album- were uptempo, high-energy, powerful. That nameless, ubiquitous piano tune of his he kept playing was nothing of the sort.

But, I liked it anyway, for the contrast if nothing else...

Just then Paul, Freddie's personal manager, came outside and trotted our way. Once he saw him coming, Freddie quit fooling around and edged his way off the rocks. Paul leaned in, whispered insistently into Freddie's ear, then backed off a bit. Freddie didn't reply, just nodded his head, and began strolling toward the studio itself.

"Phone call," he explained over his shoulder when Roger asked where he was going. "It's Mary. Be right back."

"Right," Roger nodded, then began to do a few laps around the pool. John, however, kept looking behind him, watching Freddie go. With a little shrug, he too got to his feet, pulling off his shirt to sling it over an arm of one of the sun chairs. He stretched his arms over his head, walked casually toward the pool and began stepping down into it to join Roger.

And I asked, for no particular reason, "Hey John, what is that song?"

John looked back at me, confused. "Hm?"

"That song Freddie was playing."

"Which one?"

"The soft one- the piano-based song, the one that's rather flowing."

Something in John's tone downshifted. "Oh, that." He rubbed his neck, squinting at me. "He wrote that almost a year ago. Wait- yes. Actually a year ago today. Huh."

"It's pretty," I went on. "What's it called?"

"Dunno."

"Well- what's it about?"

Again, John shrugged. "Dunno, I didn't write it," he said again. "That's something you'd have to ask him, I think."

With that, he stepped into the shallow end, grinning as Roger sped past him. True, I should have asked Freddie instead of John. It was just an idle question, and I wasn't disappointed in the answers- I expected as much from the bass player, he never said much as it was. it was his tone, however, that struck me.

A tone that seemed to warn me, very gently, "And if you know what's good for you, you won't ask at all."

Perhaps that's why I never did...

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Scene 2: Freddie

That night, I couldn't sleep.

At two a.m., I was lying there in my hotel room bed, wide awake, facing the wall. Behind me, I heard Henri rustle around a little under the covers. I think that was his name, anyway- Henri, some darling Frenchman Paul had introduced me to at the club earlier that evening. He tended to snore, but not badly, which was lucky for him; I had no qualms about kicking a lover out of bed for snoring too loud, and Henri certainly would be no exception.

But at the moment, Henri, his snoring, and our little interlude about an hour ago were the furthest things from my mind.

It was just that song, that stupid fucking song. It was driving me mad.

Starting yesterday morning, it was all I could hear, all I could think about. A gentle, sweet song I had tried with my all to abandon forever- but, evidently, it had not abandoned me. Perhaps its reason, its inspiration had left- but not one day in the last year had passed where I had gone along without being reminded of them somehow- or else, without that song creeping into my brain to sing a bittersweet lament...

My eyes widened. Good God. That was why.

It's been a year, I realized. It was July 13th yesterday- and in a few hours, it'll be noon on the 14th, the day it ended. One year. Three hundred sixty-five fucking days. God, that seems so long ago...

And yet, that song was still stuck in my head, with nowhere to go but in and out of my ears, playing over and over, the wordless, tortuous melody.

My fingers drummed restlessly against the duvet, ticking and ticking until finally I sat up and rubbed my eyes. I couldn't take it anymore. That song would never leave me in peace until I faced it, worked on it, appeased it in some fashion. So, I would, or else I could never sleep again. I drew back the covers, slid my feet to the floor.

Henri stirred. "Hmmm... Freddie?"

"I'll be back, dear," I murmured absently. "Don't you worry."

As I drew on my dressing gown, Henri sat up a little. "Où vas-tu, mon chou?"

"Nowhere," I whispered. "Go back to sleep."

Satisfied, Henri laid back down with a small grunt. And I opened the bedroom door and went into the front room. Ah, yes, stardom had its pluses. Only two years ago, was it, we were basically sharing hotel rooms on tour; now I had my very own suite, complete with a lovely grand piano to play at any and all hours of the day.

I found that the radio was still on, softly humming away in the corner with a Bee Gees song, something from that Saturday Night Fever film. I liked the song, so I stood there and listened, singing quietly in the places where I knew the words:

I believe in you,
You know the door to my very soul.
You're the light in my deepest, darkest nights,
You're my savior when I fall.
And you may not think I care for you
When you know down inside that I really do,
And it's me you need to show:

How deep is your love?

I cut it off there, poured myself a drink, then sat down at the bench. God, it was quiet in here now. Quiet and a bit stuffy. I thought of going over and opening the window, but I didn't. I wanted to get this over with.

I played the song once all the way through. All day, even whilst in the studio, I had played it in pieces, but never once in its entirety. That's how it works, I've heard. At least it does with me- that hearing a piece of a song, instead of the whole thing, makes it more likely to become stuck in the mind. Hopefully this little exercise would cure me.

Not since a year ago had I put any effort into this song at all; three lines in the chorus were all I had written, as far as lyrics are concerned.

"Hm-hm-hm, look at me now," I sang. "Hm-hm-hm, you got me somehow..."

Of course, I was omitting a certain word in the lines. But it was entirely purposeful, I tell you; I would not allow her name to leave my lips if I could absolutely help it. She was no longer here, there was no reason to so much as acknowledge her existence by uttering her name.

Three minutes later, the song drew to a close- but it had fixed nothing. The song was still in my head, playing just as loud and incessantly as ever. I slammed the drink and poured another, then played the song again, this time slower. Again, it made no difference.

As the drink count rose, I found myself feeling less and less apprehensive about the song itself. The Stoli made me bolder, more careless. And for the first time, it occurred to me.

I was going about this thing all wrong.

Just what the fuck was I afraid of? What did I expect to happen if I didn't suppress these thoughts? Oh, of course, I didn't want her to have the satisfaction of knowing I still had yet to forget those two weeks, those memories- but I didn't need to basically hide from them- or rather, hide from her. That wasn't my way- and by shying away from the very sound of her name, I was giving her control. I was letting her actions control mine.

I was bigger than that. I was bigger than her. And I could prove it.

So now, after one whole year, I sang the forbidden name.

"Julia," I crooned, "look at me now. Julia, you got me somehow."

The world didn't crumble, much to my delight. My hands trembled a little, but what of it?

"You gave me no warning, took me by surprise," I sang- then, just to do it, I continued- and this time I made sure to say her name, "Julia, you fucked me up."

I burst out laughing. It was as though a great weight had been lifted off of me, simply by singing her name. I felt in control, like the power had been handed back to me. It had been a whole year; by now, certainly I deserved to have that power again. I played the chorus over and over again, making up lyrics as I went.

"Julia, you are a whore," I giggled. "Julia, come fuck me some more- you didn't believe me, the joke is on you, Julia- are you happy now?

"Julia, was this your plan? Julia- to ruin this man? Well, honey, you did well, but I'm still alive... Julia- go fuck yourself."

That last one really got me howling. God, this was so funny! I never knew this song could be so hilarious with the right words. It was an absolute fucking scream! Oh, what a joke- what a funny thing to stick on the album!

Yes, that's right. Queen's album, our new one we were recording here in Nice- and I had just made up my mind to include this very track. After all, she had said she didn't want this melody of hers on any album- wanted me to keep it "between ourselves". I'd show her. I'd show that bitch. Oh, what a picture, to imagine the look on her face when she saw how blatantly I had gone against her wishes- and how vulgarly I was willing to speak of her on a record! What a beautiful embarrassment! What lovely humiliation! Ha ha ha!

My eyes were starting to water from how hard I was laughing. "Julia- your tits are so small. Julia- don't miss you at all. I hate you so much, dear, I hope that you die, Julia- don't ever come back!"

I doubled over at that, just about fell off the bench. I leaned against the piano and covered my mouth to stifle the laughter, only to feel the tears streaming freely down my cheeks- and like that, it wasn't funny anymore and I stopped laughing altogether. I was crying too hard for anything else.

"I didn't mean it, darling," I sobbed aloud. "I didn't mean it. Not one word. I'm sorry. I don't hate you, I swear... oh, baby... why'd you do it? You promised me... you swore... Why'd you leave me? Why? Why?"

That's usually how it worked; I could laugh for a while, scorn the memories- but it always ended in tears. Oh, I told myself I'd get over her eventually. I'd put her behind me, move on, let those two weeks wither and die in my wake. I would learn some day to shake her, I just knew- but simultaneously, I knew I wouldn't. And as far as Julia was concerned, at this rate, that would never change. A year, two years, ten years- it wouldn't matter. It would still hurt, and hurt like hell.

For to be honest, I was still waiting. I had waited a year, a whole year, still hanging on to the faintest of hopes, hopes that continued to falter with each passing day that separated me from those two weeks, but never left me alone for good. I still hoped, I still waited- foolishly, perhaps, but I did. This melody was that hope in musical form- an ebbing tide, a rise and fall, like the ocean- receding sometimes, swelling in others, but always there, never fully gone, too big to ignore, and too strong to turn away...

Just like my love for her, my stray kitten. My Julia. My darling, evil angel.

But I couldn't keep crying about this all night. Before too long, I pulled myself together, dried my face on my sleeve. I had work to do.

For, all that being said, I had still decided this song would have a place on the album. Not only was it beautiful (if I do say so myself), but it meant something. Most of my songs didn't; even "Love of My Life" was the direct product of my imagination. And only I knew what it meant- and I intended to keep it that way.

Therefore, the "Julia" part would have to go.

But what could take its place? Very few words suited the melody as well as her name; I had even based the line itself on Lennon's own "Julia." I'd have to figure that out later. At the moment I was more interested in building off the chorus for more lyrics. A good place to start.

I thought back to the first thing I'd come up with- "Julia, you fucked me up." EMI most certainly would have a bone to pick with that, so I'd have to think of a more, shall we say, appropriate wording.

"Julia, you screwed me up- no, no," I muttered. "You, um- you led me on? Ah! That's good, that's nice. Where's some paper?" I grabbed the first notebook I could find, clicked the pen in my hand, scrawled it down.

For it was true. She had led me on. She made a promise to me- a promise never to leave, a promise to protect me from being alone, left to my own devices. And I believed her. I trusted her. I was so blinded, and by my own love...

"To fall in love was my very first mistake," I wrote, swallowing hard. I wasn't even trying to match up lines to the music yet, I was brainstorming- writing what I felt. "How was I to know I was too in love to see...

"Oh, how wrong could I be," I sighed to myself- then paused. God, that was good too. I wrote it, looked at it, then tweaked it. "Could I" became "can you," and I put down a question mark.

I stared at that line a few moments, then sang it as the first line of the verse, just to try it out: "Oh, how wrong can you be?"

And I realized, I wasn't asking myself that question, or being rhetorical. I really was asking her, asking Julia, how she could read me so wrong.

"Give my regards to Phyllis," she had whispered over the phone. Phyllis of course, being the drag name I had given David Minns, my ex-lover- and in whom, at the time, I was rapidly losing interest. I don't know what she was thinking in saying that to me, and letting those be among the last words I ever heard her speak.

Then again, she did think herself sub-par to everyone with whom I had had a relationship, whether that was Joe, or Mary, or David- and perhaps the idea that she might have to share me with them (which was a false idea, I tried to tell her, but she wouldn't listen- she never listened, not to me anyway) drove her away. Made her leave. As jealous and possessive a man as I know I am, it was her own jealousy that came between us, split us apart. We had so much in common, I saw so much of myself in her it was frightening at ti-

My eyes widened.

Aloud I spoke the word, let it roll softly off my tongue: "Jealousy."

I laid my hands across the keys, head pounding with revelation, and played the chorus, but this time, I changed the words a little:

Jealousy, look at me now; Jealousy, you got me somehow/ You gave me no warning, took me by surprise... Jealousy, you led me on..."

Fuck. It was perfect. I kept going to see where this took me. "You couldn't lose, you couldn't fail... um, you- You had- SUSPICION- yes! You had suspicion on my trail-"

I had to write this down, scratched through every Julia and replaced it with "Jealousy." I could not have asked for a more fitting substitute. For that's basically what happened. Jealousy, her jealousy- not mine this time but hers- was what killed us.

Good Lord, this may be one of the most honest songs I've ever written.

I continued to work on the song through the night, and finally dragged myself back to bed toward daybreak. When I woke a couple of hours later, I found Henri was already gone- which saddened me a bit inside, but I still had too much music rolling around in my head to care. I felt renewed, I felt clever.

There on the sheet music rest, sat proof of my cleverness, an old song with new lyrics lay freshly cooked and cooling, one I would show the boys and see to it that it was included on our new record.

And despite the tears, despite the pain, in my soul nestled proof of my new outlook, my defiance against the girl. She broke her promise to me; it was fair game now, to do exactly as I pleased, have as good a time as I so chose, especially the sort that would make her frown and shake her head. It was my life- and if she wasn't going to trust in me enough to be a part of it, then she could fuck off. It was my life, and only mine. She had no say. I would show her how little I cared for her words, how little I believed in her, just as she did not believe in me at all.

Ah, yes. I'd show her.

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October 4, 1978

Scene 3: John

"Jealousy, you tripped me up/ Jealousy, you brought me down/ you bring me sorrow, you cause me pain, Jealousy/ when will you let go?"

Very subtly I watched Freddie's face while the song played back. But I saw nothing but a blank slate, eyes turned down as he listened and slouched against the console. We were just about to wrap up the album itself; a few more songs needed touching up, and "More of That Jazz," our tail-out, had yet to be recorded. Roger had the idea of including segments from nearly every track on Jazz in that song as a sort of sum-up.

At the moment, however, we were trying to decide where the chosen tracks belonged on the album- their positions, if you like.

"It's a lovely track, Freddie," Brian said approvingly- then added, "but why would you want to put it there?"

"I think it's the only place it could possibly go," Freddie declared.

"But- right between Fat-Bottomed Girls and Bicycle Race?" Brian squinted. "I think it would make more sense to put it after Bicycle, personally- those two go together better. Fat Bottomed Girls, and Bi-"

"Yes, but dear, it breaks it up, gives more variety on this side." Freddie folded his arms. "Isn't that what we want anyway?"

"Bicycle Race" still confused me. It was fun, of course, and an absolute whirl of a song at that, but it seemed slightly tinged with bitterness, especially that line "Jaws was never my scene, and I don't like Star Wars," and then all those cracks about the United States of America. What's he-

Oh. Now I get it.

In spite of myself, I sighed. It was the same thing as what drove him to finish Julia's song, I knew. It was her again.

Of course, I hadn't outright asked him about it- a threat he made over a year ago prevented that from happening- but I could certainly read the writing on the wall. Brian and Roger didn't have a clue, but I knew everything about those two weeks.

"I suppose so," Brian shrugged. "I mean, if it's really that important to you-"

"It is," Freddie grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Terribly so. It's a terrific laugh, the way this little thing is just crammed in there."

Brian blinked. "Um, right."

I still couldn't believe, though, that Freddie actually wanted to release it as our last single. We had it all worked out, the single release schedule- and Jealousy was to be released last, but only in six countries, including the USSR.

That actually wasn't supposed to happen. It was only a joke. When we were determining which songs were to be singles, I remembered that conversation I had with one of Julia's friends over the Relic, where they told me that Julia was a spy checking up on any Soviet propaganda in our music- of course they were lying, but that still cracks me up when I think of it.

So much so, that I even suggested, though totally in jest, "How about the Russians? They'd love this."

I didn't think they'd actually take me up on it. Funny, how that was the only song we ever released in the Soviet Union- and it's all due to me and a small inside joke.

That's why I keep my mouth shut most of the time- among other reasons.

"Jealousy" wound down- it doesn't end, it just winds down- and then Roy Thomas Baker turned off the tape, and changed the track to another of Freddie's songs. Roger smiled; he had taken a special liking to it, as we all had. Freddie, though, kept his head down, as though deep in thought.

"I think this one should go on side B," Roy announced. "it's a great penultimate choice. I still say you don't need the other thing, what is it-"

"'More of That Jazz'?" Roger sounded injured. "Why not?"

"Nothing, nothing," Roy sighed, shaking his head. "I'm just saying, this is a great end to the album, too."

Honestly, I agreed with Roy- but Roger had fought tooth and nail for his song, the only other song he had written besides "Fun It", and no one could take it away from him.

As the track started, and we listened closely to the final product, I could swear I saw Freddie's mouth twitch- and the corner draw up in a smirk. A defiant, odd little smirk. But he was silent. The song, it seemed, was doing the talking. I could see it so clear:

"Tonight, I'm gonna have myself a real good time/ I feel alive/ and the world is turning inside out, yeah/ and floating around in ecstasy, so/ Don't- Stop- Me- Now..."

Don't worry, Freddie, no one is going to stop you, and nobody is going to try, I told him silently. After all, the only one who can, is gone.